Once Dominique Strauss-Kahn was a shoo-in for the next president of France -
but those heady days are long gone.

It’s no fun being Dominique
Strauss-Kahn these days. His long-suffering wife, the millionaire art
heiress Anne Sinclair, has decamped for the family ryad in Marrakesh,
leaving him to face the daily revelations about prostitutes being flown to
him in Washington. His Place des Vosges neighbours are up in arms as the
quiet of their beautiful, 400-year-old Parisian square is disturbed by
demonstrations against the “sexism” of the former head of the IMF. (A recent
one involved a gaggle of Ukrainian feminists, bussed in from Kiev, wearing
bikinis, “French maid” outfits, stilettos, stockings and garter belts.

His every move is followed by paparazzi. And even though the case that put his
adventurous sex life in the open was dismissed by the New York courts, the
hotel maid Nafissatou Diallo is suing him in a civil court, where she
expects to win massive damages. Once he was a shoo-in for the next president
of France; those heady days are long gone.

Now Edward Epstein has written an “investigative” piece for the New York
Review of Books, which attempts to prove that the alleged rape was a set-up
masterminded by Nicolas Sarkozy’s party, the UMP. Using footage from the
hotel’s security cameras and telephone records, presumably fed by DSK’s
defenders, Epstein constructs a ripping story of entrapment.

He makes much of a supposed “victory dance” caught on CCTV by two low-level
hotel employees after the police were brought in to hear Diallo on the day
of the alleged assault, using it to suggest that Accor, the French chain
managing the hotel, were involved in bringing Sarkozy’s most dangerous rival
down. (The employees, however, have said they were discussing sport.)

Alas for DSK, even his closest friends and political supporters aren’t buying
Epstein’s thesis. The latest one to dismiss it is Jean-Christophe
Cambadélis, a Socialist MP who was widely tipped be part of a 2012 DSK
cabinet, and who once carried the can for DSK in a party financing scandal.
But Paris is almost entirely unanimous on one point: that Epstein’s very
readable piece is predicated on an assumption of competence by the UMP dirty
tricks department that’s nothing short of fantastic. “That lot couldn’t
conspire their way out of a paper bag” is the consensus.

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It’s not just the Right that’s disorganised. The team running the campaign for François
Hollande, the Socialist presidential challenger, has had to assign a
minder to his gaffe-prone partner, the former Paris Match reporter Valérie
Trierweiler (nicknamed Valérie Rottweiler). Trierweiler, who covered
Hollande and his then partner of 20 years, Ségolène Royal, for Match (even
reporting from the post-delivery room after the birth of the last of the
couple’s four children in 1992) says coyly that her “relationship with
François changed in 2005”, a date that some dispute. She took to giving
embarrassing interviews in which she said that Ségolène should “learn to
step back”. Rottweiler is now being “advised” by one Nathalie Mercier, a PR
hack from the very agency which conducted the campaign to clear DSK’s name
with such alacrity. Oh for the days of Madame de Gaulle, who never said a
word.

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Is sex compulsory in France? A man who “mostly’’ stopped having sexual
relations with his wife of 21 years has just been fined 10,000 euros damages
by an Aix-en-Provence court on appeal, confirming a similar 2009 ruling. Two
sets of judges concurred in finding that the man’s wedding vows had not been
followed, even though he “occasionally” still performed, and that his wife’s
rights and expectations were not respected. The couple are now divorced in a
ruling setting the fault 100 per cent on him. Can damages for unsatisfying
performances be far behind?

After years without a store in Paris, Marks and Spencer brought one back last
week. But the shop on the Champs-Elysées doesn't quite fit, says
Anne-Elisabeth Moutet

Like every Parisienne, I was pretty chuffed when I first heard Marks &
Spencer were coming back to Paris. We'd never understood why they'd gone
away in the first place.

They used to have this wonderful huge store just opposite Galeries Lafayette,
in the shopping haven segment of Boulevard Haussmann that's Paris's answer
to Oxford Street.

After going through the gauntlet of stand-offish sales counsellors at the
Galeries and Au Printemps – shiny places all about designer brands, It-bags,
big-name scents and eye-wateringly expensive size zero dresses – M&S
was a refuge with acres of sensible knickers, tactful knit black trousers
that went with everything, and the Food Hall, which to us was the height of
exoticism.

You didn't go to Marks and Sparks to make your normal French Sunday lunch; you
went to stock up for a party, for Christmas dinner, for a kid's birthday,
for a treat. (Buying your Christmas cake, not the very morning from your
neighbouring boulangerie, but in September? In a tin? This was more
outlandish than anything they could dream up in Papua-New Guinea.)

The calorie count, for once, went out the window. The streaky bacon sizzled
gloriously with our farm oeufs Label Rouge. The tea was organic
(which at the time wasn't readily available here) but the biscuits and cakes
were seemingly entirely made of additives, processed sugar, and improbable
chemical colourings approved by the Brussels Commission.

Our kids loved it. We loved it. My friend Nadalette's twin daughters
religiously celebrated their birthdays, year after year, with the M&S
caterpillar-shaped chocolate cake, gaily sprinkled with multicoloured M&M
shavings. They cried when they were told they couldn't have it any longer.

You'd decorate a sophisticated dinner table with M&S toffees, wine gums
and caramels in their wrappings. Ad agencies would serve M&S sandwiches
during their brainstorming sessions – it was so décalé,
so creative.

You'd never try to pass off a ready-made M&S dish as your own if you
served it at dinner; on the contrary, you'd triumphantly announce "Ce
soir, dîner anglais! Je suis allée le chercher spécialement chez Marks et
Spencer!"

At the other end of the scale, in the Septième and Seixième Sud, to Madame
Figaro-reading bourgeois families, whose traditional values include an
Anglophilia preserved in a kind of ideal 1950s Sloaney aspic - a hazy mix of
tartan skirts, cashmere twin-sets, good boarding schools for girls, Prince
Charles and le five 'o clock - M&S was the Source, the Ur-provider of
The Right Stuff, when they barely knew about Mulberry or Fortnum's.

They'd stock up on tea, scones, muffins, shortbread and chocolate mints before
driving off to the country on Friday afternoon. They were the people who
wrote messages of bleak despair on the visitors' book set up by the
redundant employees of Boulevard Haussmann when M&S abandoned us in 2001.

And now M&S were back. Round the corner from me, in fact. On the
Champs-Elysées. Where the Esprit shop closed in under two years. And the
shop before that. And the newspaper whose offices are on the fifth floor,
the ill-fated France-Soir, bought by yet another Russian oligarch,
Sergei Pugachev, for his 25-year-old son, Alexander, now nearly in
receivership. (The paper, not the son.)

Ever since they tore down the Sélect café yonks ago at the corner of rue de
Berri, this has been something of a jinxed location.

I also wondered what your normal M&S shopper had in common with the chav
zoo the Champs have become.

Every weekend there are about a quarter of a million people on the avenue, in
hoodies, baggy jeans, short skirts or Adidas trainers (big Adidas store at
number 22), dodging pickpockets, intrusive beggars, and football fans (huge
Paris Saint-Germain football club store, at number 27, complete with the odd
optimistic David Beckham picture) to queue up for the latest Tom Cruise
movie, get a Big Mac (McDonald's at number 140) or buy sprayed-on jeggings
for €9.95 at H&M (number 90).

I know my Champs-Elysées: I have lived in the area half my life; and was in
fact born about 100 metres off what the Paris Tourism office likes to call "the
most beautiful avenue in the world", a tag duly picked up by the M&S
advance publicity.

Long before the actual opening last Thursday, you had to question how they
would manage to fit a complete M&S into a store with the footprint of a
family flat.

I dropped by on my way home on Friday. There was a long queue patiently
waiting outside in the nippy late November evening, with bewildered
middle-aged shoppers admitted one couple at a time.
Through the windows, you could see near-empty clothes aisles. You had to
wonder if the queue – spotlighted by every daily newspaper after the
opening, Blitz spirit, free tea and biscuits, so Anglais – wasn't a bit of
publicity stunt.

When I put this to the store manager, she blanched and went all elf 'n safety
on me. There Were Rules, she explained. Which were Essential. It got a bit
like pulling teeth, until I managed to get out of her that only 420 people
are allowed inside the 14,000 square ft store at any time.

Most of these were queuing again, inside, for the "food hall" –
which is more like a food grotto, in the back, the average size of your
local newsagent. The food was in fact added as a bit of an afterthought:
originally, the store was supposed to establish M&S as a fashion
retailer.

It was only after something of a spontaneous email campaign, once the rumours
started in Paris, that some space was freed for it. It apparently already
accounts for 35 per cent of sales this first week, instead of the projected
10 per cent. "There will be Simply Food outlets in Paris soon,"
the nice publicity woman told me.

It's very obvious they can't open fast enough for us. Harried shop executives
were helping the assistants continuously restocking the shelves, as the oeufs
écossais, the poulet à l'Indienne, the sandwiches au
bacon and the scones got grabbed in quasi-wartime scenes.

When we came back on Saturday morning to take pictures, the queue was still
there, but the inside of the store was fuller. It was still the food that
attracted the most customers – very few seemed to have found their way to
the lingerie department, occupying most of the entire first floor – but the
women's clothes now also got some attention.

The choice, I have to say, is very stylish and covetable. There was a €25
Autograph gold lamé tank top that looked just as good as something nearly
similar I recently bought from Max Mara at €200, scrumptious shearling
gloves in buttery suede for €62, a cashmere hoodie for €120. Not cheap by any standards – my favourite Per Una £15 nightie was €32.50 – and
certainly more than the 10 per cent mark up on London prices announced.

I went looking for some of my favourite M&S items, the five rolled up
cotton knickers for £6, but they obviously had been deemed too down-market
to cross the Channel. Ditto the opaque black tights at £8.

M&S Paris have gone chic on us. They should be a success – I espied on a
whiteboard, as we were dropping the photographer's heavy kit bag in a back
office, that 3,100 customers have visited it the last two days, each
spending an average basket of €36.50.

If the objective was to create a buzz in advance of the normal-sized stores
scheduled to open within the next two years outside central Paris, they
probably have achieved that.

All the same, as I walked home past my local supermarket, whose manager was
hugely miffed that M&S are allowed to open on Sundays while he cannot, I
thought I couldn't see myself or anyone queuing for half an hour under the
baleful eye of a basketball-player-sized security guard for a sandwich or a
Chicken Tikka Masala.

About Me

Anne-Elisabeth Moutet is a Paris-based journalist and political commentator. She is a columnist for the Telegraph and also writes on French affairs for the Weekly Standard and for Newsweek in the US. She often comments on the news on the BBC, BFM-TV, ARTE, al-Jazeera and France 24. This blog contains stories she wrote for these, as well as for The European, The Sunday Times, Tatler, Prospect, the Chicago Sun-Times, and more. Contact her here.
Follow @moutet here on Twitter.